and you still don't want a divorce?
by DirigibleBoyKing
Summary: In the wake of Dean being cured, they're trying to safety-pin Sam back together. In typical Winchester fashion, both of them are dealing fabulously.
1. Chapter 1

Dean nearly knocks, but doesn't.

His hand pauses above the door for a moment. Sam probably won't even want to see him, right? Hell, if it had been Sam whose eyes had gone black, Dean would have taken off, probably driven himself over the edge of the world.

Sometimes, Dean has no idea how he got here.

Too many apocalypses can do that to a guy.

But he still has Sam, though only barely. Sam, who'd had bent his soul back into place, except he hadn't fixed him, because he still has the sense-memory of that hammer smashing into the wall just above his brother's head. And the shock, oh sweet fucking Jesus, the shock in Sam's eyes. The fucking intoxication of it.

Dean says a silent thanks (to who, _God_?) when the door swings open silently beneath his hand. Sam's room is dimly lit by the lamp beside the bed, and Sam's stretched out on his side, fully dressed, one hand beneath his pillow. His legs hang off the edge of the bed, and Dean's chest tightens briefly. He's asleep, flat out unconscious, and Dean feels a twinge at that- now he thinks about it, he looked like hammered crap earlier. Dean moves forward anyway. He figures that if he doesn't get the awkward shit over with they'll be dancing round each other for weeks.

He reaches out to touch Sam on the shoulder, but suddenly Sam's twisting round to scramble back on the bed with a gun in his good hand.

'Whoa,' says Dean, stepping back, hands up. 'Only me.'

The suspicion doesn't entirely leave Sam's eyes, which, yeah, that hurts, but he lowers the gun and winces suddenly. Dean figures the movement jarred Sam's broken arm, or wrist, or whatever it is.

God. Dean's taking up too much space in the room.

Sam sits up against the headboard. He still looks wary, like he's worried that he only dreamt Dean was cured. Suddenly Dean's regretting coming in here. Sam looks exhausted. Not to mention bruised.

'Dean?' he says, like he's testing out the word. 'Do you need something?'  
Dean frowns. 'No, I'm good,' he says.

'Gr-r-reat,' says Sam, slumping back, and it's only the slight drawing-out of the word that tells Dean that little brother is, most likely, smashed. 'Then what, Dean?'

In the silence that follows, Sam sticks out a hand for the bottle on his nightstand, and knocks it back. He winces as he replaces it, the motion too deliberate to be in any way sober.

Dean catches onto the wince. 'Are you hurt?'

'I'm fine,' Sam said tightly.

'Sam, man, come on.'

Sam doesn't respond, just closes his eyes, like he's too exhausted to even keep them open.

Dean goes over there, putting a hand under Sam's shoulders, sitting him up properly, and Sam's flinch doesn't escape him, but he accepts it and just gets Sam upright on the bed, and he wonders why he can feel all the bones of Sam's shoulder, and it's only then that the worry _really_ kicks in _._

'Shirt off, Sam,' he says, and because Sam's too tired to argue, too tired and hurting and wasted, Sam does what he says, taking off the sling, then two shirts, then a t-shirt. Then he leans back and waits.

They both sit there in silence for a minute. Then Dean says, 'Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry,' and Sam looks wearily back at him.

Sam's a mess. Dean knows that he was captured by some psycho a few days ago. But tortured? It wasn't as if it hadn't crossed his mind, but couldn't they ever dodge a bullet?

Looking at Sam like this is shock after shock after shock, because then there's how thin he got, skin and bone almost, the shadows beneath his ribs visible. That's not the worst of it. His brother's torso is shades of black and blue and violet with bruises- Dean bets he has at least one cracked rib- and the skin around his collarbones is raw and marred with what look like small burns. His jeans sag round his hipbones. He's got a few new cuts and slices, too, some stitched, some clotted and smeared with dried blood.

Dean can see it then- some guy with Sam tied to a chair, socking him into the middle of next week until Sam can't even hold his head up anymore, and he wonders how long it took before Sam stopped fighting back and just went limp and took the beating.

He chokes down fury.

'Seriously, Dean,' Sam says. He sounds almost amused. 'Don't look so freaked, man. It's not like I haven't had-'

Dean only has to look at him before Sam shuts up.

'Stay right there,' said Dean. He gets up. 'I'm getting the ice.'

Leaving, Dean hears the creak of springs as Sam lies back.

He waits til he's in the bunker kitchen, where they keep the medical supplies, to break down. To brace his arms against the counter and put his head down and rage silently, with his eyes wet and his chest heaving. This is on him, this one. If he'd come to get Sam when that guy called him up, maybe-  
But of course there's no getting away from the feel of that hammer in his hand as he swung it towards Sam's head.

Dean straightens up. He goes into the medical cupboard and pulls out all the stops; bandages and icepacks and burn gel and thread for some of those nastier-looking cuts, and he'll be damned if Sam leaves the bunker inside a fortnight, or if he ever lets anyone near him again-

But let's not forget the reason this all happened to Sam in the first place, right?

When Dean's vision clears, his fist is through the nearest wall.

Sam's out cold when he gets back, probably drunk senseless. Of course that doesn't stop him from twitching awake at Dean's footsteps and going for his gun- _again._ At least this time he puts it down when he sees who it is.

He eyes Dean's armful of bandages and gels. 'You're gonna use all the band-aids.'

Dean dumps the stuff on the bed and passes Sam an icepack. 'Hold this to your ribs.'

Sam obeys, and closes his eyes in relief.

He holds up the needle and thread. 'You want to do your own stitches?'

'Yeah,' says Sam, eyes still shut, but then Dean figures that Sam's got a broken rib plus wrist and probably won't be doing anything involving sewing for a while, so he ignores this and threads the needle. Sam barely even tenses when Dean- trying to be gentle- slides the needle under his skin at the edge of a long gash. It's an indication of how far gone he is. Sam usually hates stitches.

He can't help but notice, also, the unnatural heat that seems to be coming off Sam's skin. Maybe he's just noticing it more because you don't really take that sort of stuff in when you're a demon, but he's worried anyway. 'Dude, tell me you're not running a fever.'

'I'm not running a fever,' Sam says dazedly.

The scary thing is that he's gone so utterly limp he barely jerks when Dean draws tight the thread on the last stitch. But wounds first. If Sam's ill, he'll deal with that too. One problem at a time.

SPN SPN SPN

When Dean leaves Sam he's already out like a light, long limbs splayed out over the bed. He's fully stitched up by then, gel coating the burns on his collarbones, an ice pack on his chest.

Dean goes to his room and sits down on the bed. It's strange how carefully preserved it is in here- a thin layer of dust seems to have settled while Dean was gone. The only things that look like they've been touched are the photographs by Dean's bed, and suddenly Dean's picturing Sam coming in here to sit down on the bed and look through them, reminding himself of who Dean was and why he wanted him back, and then he remembers Sam at the bar, and the trust still in his eyes.

 _'Because you're my brother.'_

Dean buries his face in his hands.

 _'And I'm here to take you home.'_

That's the worst part. When Sam had touched the darkness all those years ago, Dean had written him off. Shoved him away, right when Sam needed him most, and all along the kid had only been trying to save the fucking planet.

And then Dean gets turned into the next Abaddon and Sam still can't (won't) give up on him. No matter what he's done. Even after Sam not looking for him while he was in Purgatory. Even after the whole I-wouldn't-have-done-the-same-for-you deal.

God, if it was true about Lester, Sam had nearly lost himself, nearly _killed_ himself trying to get Dean back, and Dean had gone so dark he would've let him. No, that was bullshit. He would have killed him himself. The other crap Dean could disregard- the guilt about Lester was a faint niggling, and yeah, he'd said some crap to people, but that wasn't exactly on the same wavelength as trying to smash their heads in (and oh fuck, how vividly, how sensually he'd imagined Sam's skull caving under the hammer-head, the heady reek of blood and the glint of his little brother's bone like eggshell, _fuck_ -).

Azazel, Ruby, Lucifer. They had no idea. 'I'm not _clean,'_ Sam had said, and now Dean finally understands, knows what it's like to feel like your every vein is an itching, poisonous wire.

He's tainted. He gets it now.

Maybe it was him all along.

'Dean?'

Dean's head snaps up. Sam's supporting himself against the doorframe. He's wearing his sling, but not his shirt, the bruising all too visible. Dean's at his side in seconds. 'Yeah, Sam?'

Sam looks like he's having trouble keeping his vision in focus; he squints at Dean, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. 'Are you, uh, okay?'

Dean's hands are already going to Sam's arms, ready to maneuvre him into bed, but he stops at that, drawing back. 'What the fuck? Am _I okay?'_

'It was a reasonable question,' says Sam quietly, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. His hair falls forward over his face, and that's it, Dean's had it.

He grabs Sam's biceps, and oh Christ Sam _flinches,_ but Dean ignores it, propelling Sam into his room to settle him on Dean's bed.

'Dean...'

'Shut up, Sam.'

'But-' Sam struggles weakly. Dean silences him with a look, spreading the comforter over him. 'Ssh. You need to sleep.'

'I'm fine-'

'Dude, you look like someone ground you into their shoe.'

'No, you don't-' Sam tries to sit up, but Dean's hand in the centre of his chest stops him. 'Don't understand- I can't- _you don't know what I'll dream about.'_

Sam's eyes are pleading. Dean looks away. He has a pretty good idea.

'Let me bottom-line this for you, Sam. Either you sleep, or I knock you out.'

Sam grimaces, but he relaxes a little. 'Are you... are you gonna...'

'I'm staying right here.'

A huffed laugh. When Dean raises his eyes to Sam again, he's out. Christ. From grabby and mouthy to asleep in a second.

What kind of life has the kid led lately?

SPN SPN SPN

Dean eventually dozes off in the chair beside the bed, only to be woken an hour later.

Sam's twisting feverishly on the bed, curls of hair sticking to his face with sweat, hands clutching at his elbows. 'No. Oh, Christ, no. No, no, no- oh God, _Dean?_ No, please _, Dean-'_

'Sammy, wake up, goddammit!'

Sam's eyes flick open, pupils huge and blown, irises a thin ring of hazel, translucent in the lamplight. He keels forward, drawing his knees up to his ribs, inhaling silently. He does not look at Dean.

Dean reaches out a hand and hesitantly touches Sam's shoulder. Sam flinches again, tensing under his hand. Dean quickly withdraws it.

Sam leans his forehead on his knees. Breathing seems to be taking all his concentration.

When Sam's shaky inhales even out- Dean hovering uncertainly- Sam lets himself fall back onto the pillow. Dean watches the rise and fall of his battered chest.

He clears his throat. 'You, uh,' he says, and then, 'you wanna talk about it?'

Sam shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed.

'Sammy,' says Dean. 'It helps.'

Sam rolls over onto his side so that his back's facing Dean. Dean averts his eyes from the vertebrae of his brother's spine.

'Sam-'

'Go fuck yourself.'

Dean blinks.

Sam turns over and buries his face in the pillow, hair leaving the white nape of his neck bare, and Dean resists the urge to run a hand over it.

He wants a reunion. He wants his huge, brawny, tanned little brother, not this fragile wreck of slender bones and feathery hair. He wants Sam to look healthy and to put his arms around him and nearly squeeze the breath out of him and for them to just be so, so happy they've got each other back.

And he feels terrible for thinking it, because what right does he have to want anything from his brother now?

He wants their reunion of '11, when Death fished Sam out of the pit and Dean had spent the next few months in an ecstasy of Sam, feeling a pulse of delight whenever Sam frowned at him for being rude to a witness or stealing a diary.

God, he misses those days. He never thought he would.

 _If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright._

 _Yeah, Cas, I took your advice at last._

Dean's still hovering by the side of Sam's bed. He wonders if he should leave the room, but if Sam's running a fever...

Yeah, no. He doesn't want a repeat of the Trials.

Except- maybe he kind of liked being able to look after Sam. Beneath the sick worry and fear, there had been a simplicity to it. Dean remembers stroking Sam's hair while Sam retched into the toilet, remembers panicking when he found Sam passed out in that hotel with a dangerous fever. He'd picked him up without even thinking about it, carrying him straight to the bathtub.

It had been a role that Dean at least knew how to play. Now he pulls up a chair beside Sam's bed and wonders why the universe couldn't just cut them a fucking break. Like they needed reminding of their roles once again, needed reminding that Dean was a torturer, Sam the tortured, and they could defy destiny all they wanted but that still wouldn't change.

Dean turns the lights off and leans back in his chair. He falls into a doze after a while, and from there, he sleeps. The bunker hums on around them, like a mother singing a child to sleep. _Hey, Jude..._

And sometime in the pitch-black of the small hours Dean wakes to Sam's desperate sobbing, and this time, wrapped in comforting darkness, he sits on the bed and draws Sam in and cradles his sweating, shaking younger brother in his arms, whispering words to him that Dean Winchester would never admit to saying, stroking his hair, wiping the tears from Sam's cheekbones with a gentle thumb.

After a while they fell back to sleep like that, and the next morning Dean wakes up alone in Sam's bed. Sam himself is nowhere in sight.  
Fuck.

He launches himself off the bed and half-runs down the corridor to the library- and relaxes. Sam's sitting at the table, tapping away at his laptop while poking at a bowl of dry cereal.

Dean frowns.

Looking up, Sam jumps. 'Oh. Hey, Dean.'

'Don't you _hey, Dean_ me.' Dean strides forward. 'You can't just eat dry cereal for breakfast, asshat.'

Sam ignores him, continuing to type. Dean rolls his eyes, swipes the bowl, and tips the cereal into the nearest bin.

'Hey!'

'Not under my roof, Sammy. You're gonna eat some proper food if I have to spoon-feed you.'

Sam leans back in his seat, raising his eyebrows, and there's an ugly look on his face.

Dean groans inwardly. _Boundaries, you fuckwad._

'Your roof? Do you mean _our_ roof? The roof under which you nearly smashed my head in? _That_ fucking roof?'

They both freeze.

Then Sam says, 'Oh, hey, Dean, I didn't-'

'Yeah, Sam,' says Dean calmly, walking off to the kitchen. 'That's the roof I meant.'


	2. Chapter 2

Dean makes pancakes.

It's months since he cooked, but he makes pancakes. They have no bacon in, but Dean finds the maple syrup at the back of a cupboard, covered in a thin layer of dust. There's something reassuring about cooking, something familiar and safe. It's a piece of himself that he thought was lost.

Nesting. It still feels good.

Sam's hunched over the table, pinching the bridge of his nose, when Dean walks back in with two plates piled with pancakes. He sets them down a little harder than he meant to, and there it is again, Sam _flinches_.

He could ignore it. He's tempted to.

He's going to ignore it.

'For Christ's sake, Sam _, what is it_?'

Sam doesn't look up, just rubs his palms into his eyes, stifling a yawn.

'And I swear to God, if you say-'

'Nothing.'

Disbelief surges up in Dean, uncontrollable as hysteria, and he tips his head back and makes a noise like a giggle or maybe a snarl, high and thin, and then he gets right up in Sam's face and _screams_ at him, 'YOU WANT TO TRY THAT AGAIN, SMARTASS?'

Silence settles in the air.

For a second he expects Sam to curl further in on himself and just turn round eyes on him and make him feel like a total prick, but then Sam uncoils himself from the chair and gets to his feet and-

and leaves the room.

The door swings shut. Dean's left to stare after him, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

The pancakes sit untouched. They're still steaming.

Five minutes later, Dean's stood outside Sam's door, hand awkwardly poised to knock. Again.

He breathes in and braces himself. Then he's nearly hit in the face as the door opens, Sam stepping out.

'Sam,' Dean says, stepping forward, at the same time as Sam says 'Dean.'

They stop within inches of each other, uncertain.

'Uh, you go,' says Sam.

Dean's spent the last few minutes rehearsing this speech. 'Look, man, there's nothing I can say to make this-'

'Okay,' Sam says.

Dean blinks. 'Dude. You gotta stop doing that.'

'No,' says Sam, 'I get it, okay, Dean? I know you feel guilty as- as- and yeah, you messed us both up, okay? Do you need to hear me say it? Because I'm saying it,' and then he stops and just looks at Dean, and the corners of his mouth turn down a little, like when he was a kid about to cry, and that's what Dean just-

He grabs Sam and wraps his arms around him, and his shoulders feel knobbly ( _why_ didn't Dean make him eat those pancakes?) but it's Sam, his Sam, and he feels him freeze up for a second before tentatively circling his arms round Dean's back.

Dean squeezes him hard, letting go when he hears Sam's sniffle. 'Hey, hey, now you've got hayfever too?' he says, getting Sam by the elbows to examine him, but he's shocked to see that his brother has tears streaking his cheeks.

'Sam? Sammy?'

'You fucking sonuvabitch motherfucker,' and Sam's face crumples inwards, 'you fucking died, Dean, you fucking _died_ , you bastard, you fucking asshole-'

'Hey, hey, hey, Sammy, shush, it's okay, I'm here now, okay?' Dean steers Sam backwards into the room, pushing him gently down onto his bed, but Sam's still talking, tears making tiny blotches on his t-shirt. 'What, did you think one hundred and four times wasn't enough? After everything, after fucking everything, and you just- I woke up by the side of the road and ran the whole way there and I got in right on time to watch you _die_ , Dean.' He fists his hands in Dean's t-shirt. ' _I'm proud of us?_ The fuck did you even _mean_?'

'Sam, Sam, come on, kiddo,' says Dean, knowing that he's pleading now, but he can't do this, he really fucking can't do this, so he pushes Sam down by the shoulders until he's lying flat on the bed, but still-

'You don't get to do that, Dean- you don't get to say something like that and just fucking _die_ on me, Jesus-'

'I know, Sammy, I know.'

Eventually Dean manages to get Sam settled, and Sam seems to rant himself to sleep or something, so Dean leaves him to hunt around under the kitchen sink for washclothes, because Sam's forehead felt radiator-hot earlier.

He finds two- one green, one pastel blue and covered in little pixellated bees. (Charlie left it, maybe?) He hesitates- any other time he'd have taken hundreds of photos of Sam with the bee one draped over his face, but how would Sam react now? Once upon a time he'd have had a hissy fit and it would have been funny as fuck, and he'd've been a grumpy little shit until Dean bought him a frilly drink and offered him a massage. Now? He'd blink a couple times, maybe glance up at Dean through his hair. Maybe swallow nervously, throat bobbing.

But they can get back there, right? It can be done. They've recovered before. And at their cores, Sam and Dean are still the same, right? Still mean the same to each other, right? _Right_?

Dean grabs the washcloth with the bees. He figures it can be, like, his flag of rebellion against trauma. Or something. He heads back to the bedroom.

Sam's sprawled out face-up, his messed-up arm held protectively close. One hand twisted back up under the pillow, of course. Dean takes his wrist and moves it away carefully, Sam shifting awake and tensing.

'Just me, Sam.'

Sam relaxes, kind of, closing his eyes again, and Dean drapes the cloth over his forehead. Then he stands back and uses his phone camera to take a picture of the six-four lank with the bee-patterned forehead. He sniggers to himself. Text the picture to Garth, maybe? Or Jody?

A movement from the bed. Sam seems to shudder in his sleep- 'Dean, fuck, please, God, no, God, Jess, Dean, please, _please_ -'

Dean stops cold. He's on his knees by the bed then, stroking Sam's face til he calms, and then Dean stands back up and walks into the hallway. He closes Sam's door so he won't wake him, and then he lets the phone drop to the tiled floor.

He stamps on it. Once. Twice. Over and over and over.

Things will never, ever be the same. Trying to pretend otherwise would just screw them both.

He makes the call on his second phone.

'Cas, man, are you there?' Dean says as soon as he hears the click.

'Yes, Dean, of course.' A pause. 'Is everything alright?'

'Do you think I'd be calling if it was?'

Cas sounds surprised. 'Sam sometimes makes... social calls.'

'He does?'

'Occasionally. What's wrong?'

Dean's in the corridor, leaning against Sam's door. He scrubs a hand over his face. 'It's Sam, Cas. I, uh- he's not dealing too well.'

'And I'm sure you're the picture of psychological health, as always?'

'Ye- Cas, for fuck's sake, this is serious!'

A sigh. 'Carry on.'

'What the hell's up with you, anyway?'

'I'm teaching Hannah the pleasures of debauchery.'

' _What_?'

'I'm _drunk_ , Dean. _Drunk_.'

Dean raises his eyebrows. 'Whatever, man. I'm not gonna ask. Look, I need to know- what d'you think I can do to help Sam?'

'I believe there's something called couples therapy that you two might find very helpful.'

'I'm hanging up.'

'Well, perhaps you could try talking to him?'

'Pft. Let's skip to third base.'

A pause. 'Are you referring to the cricket position?'

'No, Cas.'

'Well, you recall I suggested you take some time off? I believe it can be highly beneficial to relationships.'

Dean makes a small, disgusted sound. 'We're not in a- _relationship_.'

'One day, Dean, I'll buy you dinner,' Cas says, deadpan. 'Then we can sit down and discuss where you've been for the past thirty-six and a half years of your life.'

Shit. Cas is a bitchy drunk.

Dean sleeps for twelve hours in a chair next to Sam's bed. Sam sleeps for seventeen.

When Dean wakes up, he feels better, finally shaking off the pervading exhaustion of being cured; he hadn't even realised how weary he'd felt until the ache was gone. And he's _hungry_.

Sam's out, but his fever seems to have broken overnight. Dean takes the bee cloth off his forehead and stands looking at him, wondering whether he dares card his fingers through Sam's hair. He shakes off the impulse.

Sling on, Sam pads into the kitchen, yawning into his sleeve. Dean's frying eggs. He's been eating pretty much non-stop since he woke up, and he's still hungry.

Sam sniffs the air. 'Smells good.'

It's an olive branch. Dean accepts it. 'Want one?'

'Sure.' Sam sits down. 'Actually, I feel way better.'

'Yeah?' Dean looks up from the pan. 'How's the arm? And, you know, the miscellaneous wounds of torture?'

Sam rolls his eyes. 'Enough with the guilting yourself. And they're fine. And, uh, you know you just used the word _miscellaneous_?'

'Shut it, smartass.'

Dean piles food onto both their plates, putting about twice as much on Sam's, and carries them over to the table. Sam immediately spears a tomato with his fork, making inroads into his plate within minutes. 'This is awesome,' says Sam through a mouthful. 'God, I'm so hungry.'

Dean grins.

A few minutes later, Sam abruptly puts his fork down.

'Oh no,' said Dean.

'I wanna say something to you,' says Sam.

'Yeah? Well, how about you finish your breakfast first.'

'Dean, man, I gotta say this.'

Dean's smile begins to feel stretched. 'C'mon, Sammy, haven't you said enough?'

'No,' says Sam. 'And _look_ at me already.'

'Look, Sam, it's too fuckin' early.'

'It wasn't your fault.'

Dean's head snaps up. Sam's gazing at him earnestly, over the top of a bowl of scrambled eggs. He doesn't dare reply.

Sam goes on. 'You made a dumb move, yeah, and taking on the Mark without knowing the consequences- well, that was pretty stupid, Dean. But stupid's not the same as wrong- well, unless it gets you killed, which I guess in your case it did, but-' He stops, rubbing his forehead. 'Sorry. I'm still kind of out of it.'

'Sammy,' Dean says hoarsely.

'Look, Dean,' he says. 'What I'm trying to say is, I'm not gonna forgive you because there's nothing to forgive. Okay? It wasn't you. Yeah, it looked like you, so you gotta expect me to be jumpy, but- if you think for _one second_ \- shit,' he mumbles, breaking off. Dean's pretty sure he sees a tear drip off Sam's nose into the scrambled egg, but he can't move.

'Sorry,' says Sam in an undertone. 'Don't know what's with me at the moment. Fucking huge tear ducts or something.'

'Huh,' Dean says, and then, unable not to: 'Must be proportional.'

Sam blinks, like, _really_? Then he bursts out laughing. So does Dean, even though it wasn't actually funny. Dean folds over the table, wheezing with laughter; Sam slumps back in his chair, practically giggling.

Then Dean's stomach tries to crawl up his throat, and he clamps a hand over his mouth and dashes for the door and seconds later he's on his knees in the bathroom puking himself inside out, everything he just ate coming up, and then there's a hand rubbing his back and Sam's voice saying 'C'mon, Dean, c'mon, buddy, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay,' but it's not, it's _not_ -

When it's over, Dean crouches on the floor and looks round at Sam. He wipes vomit from the corner of his mouth and reaches to flush the toilet.

'Feel better?' says Sam.

'Yeah,' he says, though he doesn't, not really.

Sam looks slightly queasy himself, but he helps Dean to his feet, and they make their way out of the bathroom.

Two days later they're sitting at the edge of a lake. Blue skies, green cooler, and the sign says 'No Hunting.'

'If things go sideways,' Sam's saying. 'I mean like, _an inch_.'

And Dean pushes back a mental flash of Sam's staved-in skull under his fingers and says, 'Done.'


End file.
